Behind Every Successful Man Read online

  Awulilo iphupha lam (You are not my dream)

  Zundiqondisise, Zundiqondisise (Understand this, understand this)

  Ungelilo izimba lam (You are not my sustenance)

  Zundiqondisise, Zundiqondisise

  Zange ndathi andinako (I never said I could not)

  Zundiqondisise, Zundiqondisise

  Nguwe owandenz’usana (You made me like a child)

  Zundiqondisise, Zundiqondisise

  Ndinendlela yam yokuphuma (I’ve got my own way of going)

  Zundiqondisise, Zundiqondisise

  Ndinendlela yam yokungena (I’ve got my own way of coming)

  Zundiqondisise, Zundiqondisise

  Ndinendlela yam yokuthetha (I’ve got my own way of expression)

  Zundiqondisise, Zundiqondisise

  Ndinendlela yam yokundiza (I’ve got my own way of soaring)

  She wondered how one so young could express her pain so well. As though she knew Nobantu. She stepped on the petrol, confidence surging. Goodbye rich bitch, hello independent woman, she thought as she started the engine and drove away, wanting to cry.

  Chapter 5

  5

  Driving down Rivonia Road, away from home, Nobantu had an inclination to turn back, but she knew she would never have the courage again if she didn’t keep driving now. She knew, too, that in order to keep her resolve, she would have to be as far from Sandton as possible. Somewhere she wouldn’t run into any of Andile’s friends who would try and talk her out of pursuing her dream.

  She would go south – close enough to Soweto to make it easy for her to recruit the three or four girls she may need for the initial phase of her business.

  But first things first. She needed to get herself a hotel room that she could use as a base while she got her act together.

  For a moment, driving past Yeoville, she considered going to a Formula 1, maybe the one near Southgate, but then she laughed at herself.

  Sure, she needed to be thrifty, but a Formula 1 would really be roughing it. She decided to go to the Protea Hotel at Gold Reef City instead.

  On the way, she stopped at Southdale mini-mall to get herself a cellphone. Walking into Woolies, she quickly made her purchase.

  Back on Alamein Road, she drove the five minutes or so it took to get to Gold Reef City and was soon at the gate of the hotel.

  * * *

  Protea Hotel, Gold Reef, was a hotel from another era – chandeliers, black-and-white tiles and varnished wooden panelling. The architecture screamed Victorian, albeit with a touch of modernity, and Nobantu couldn’t help breathing a sigh of relief to be able to build her dream in such surroundings.

  As she walked to the reception, she noted one of the women behind the desk whispering to her colleague. Nobantu cordially greeted the ladies and enquired as to whether they might have a suite available for at least a week.

  “Yes, we do, ma’am, will that be cash or credit card?” the whisperer, whose name tag read Princess, asked.

  Nobantu was perplexed at the question. She wondered if there really were people who still paid for hotel rooms with cash.

  “Credit,” she answered, handing over her card and ID book.

  As Princess returned her credit card and ID, and handed her the room keys, she said, “Here you go. You are in the Blacksmith Suite. We will send you a complimentary fruit basket, but if you should need anything else, please pick up the phone and we will be happy to help. Oh, and our room service and restaurants all close at ten.”

  Nobantu nodded. “Sorry, why is it called the Blacksmith Suite?” she asked.

  “Some of the suites are named after old shops that used to be around here,” the second receptionist, whose name tag read Gisela, answered.

  Nobantu smiled. It was all very quaint. Certainly, she suspected, the people who had built all of this – in the gold-digging, Victorian Johannesburg of old – would never have suspected that this place would become a place of exile for an ambitious woman like herself.

  Then, just as Nobantu was about to speak, Princess quickly rushed in with, “Askies, sisi, but aren’t you the lady who got a car from her husband for her birthday?”

  Well, what do you know, she thought, one mention in the society pages and one became an instant celebrity.

  “Yes, I am, Princess,” Nobantu answered. “By the way, is it possible for me to get a bellboy to help me with my luggage? I left it in the car?”

  “Sure, sisi. Enjoy your stay,” Princess replied efficiently.

  * * *

  The Blacksmith Suite was rather too darkly furnished for her liking, but what she did like about it was the old-fashioned bathtub that cried out for a lady’s maid as one emerged from the soapy water. She smiled at her romantic thoughts.

  After unpacking, she plugged her phone into the charger, picked up the room phone – she promised herself she would do it only this once (these kinds of hotels charged ridiculous prices for phone calls) – and called an estate agent that she knew, Oupa’s ex-wife, her friend, Tsholo.

  Tsholo answered after the first ring: “Tsholo, hello.”

  “Hello, Tsholo, it’s Nobantu, how are you doing?”

  “Hhawu, chomza, and how is the First Lady of Black Economic Empowerment? I wanted to call you and thank you for the great party, but I’ve been tied up, if you know what I mean . . .” Tsholo giggled like a teenage girl, making no secret of what and who exactly had been keeping her busy.

  Nobantu laughed. “Glad you enjoyed it,” she replied. “I loved the party accessory on your arm that night.”

  “Mxolisi’s a babe, isn’t he?” Tsholo laughed. “So, what’s up?”

  And Nobantu told her.

  “I know you specialise in residential property, but I was wondering whether someone you know might have business premises I could rent. I’m looking for something that can be subdivided into a showroom, a sewing room, a reception and maybe a little kitchen . . .”

  “What is this for, Nobantu?” Tsholo asked, sounding concerned. “Someone you know looking for business premises?”

  “Yes. Me. Now do you have anything?” Nobantu replied, getting impatient.

  “YOU?” Tsholo said, sounding surprised. “Strange. But what’s even stranger is that a friend of mine was looking to let something in the Deep. I can ask him for the keys. When would you like to see it and what’s your price range?”

  “Yesterday,” Nobantu responded firmly. “And anything below twelve thou a month will suit me just fine.”

  “Great. I’m busy today, but I can arrange to take you to see the place tomorrow afternoon, say around two. Where would you like to meet?” Tsholo asked.

  “I am confidentially staying in Gold Reef City on the theme park side . . .” Nobantu heard Tsholo’s intake of breath. “So just give me a call. I’m not on my regular number, so call me on . . .” And Nobantu read her out the new number.

  “You are looking to rent business premises. You are staying in Gold Reef City. Is everything all right, Nobantu? Do you want to tell me what this is all about?” Tsholo asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

  “Tsholo, let’s just talk about all of this tomorrow,” Nobantu said. “And, Tsholo, when I told you just now that I am confidentially staying in Gold Reef, I meant just that. You cannot tell your ex-husband that you know where I am, you cannot breathe a word of my whereabouts to his squash partners that you might bump into in the mall, you cannot whisper it to Nazli should you meet her at the theatre, I mean CONFIDENTIALLY.”

  “Girl, you are making me sound like Maggie Webster,” Tsholo replied.

  As Nobantu hung up she felt a mixture of elation and trepidation. Elation because it looked like she might just be lucky enough to find a place in the Deep and trepidation because she was unsure whether this was the right thing to do. What if she failed dismally? Would she be able to crawl back to Andile with her tail between her legs? More importantly, if she failed and went crawling back to him, would Andile take her back?

  She dialled
room service and ordered a bottle of vodka and some orange juice. Today, she would banish her uncertain thoughts and celebrate the fact that she had managed to leave home. Tomorrow was another day. Tomorrow, she had a business to register, premises to see and possibly rent and, if there were enough hours in the day, a few girls to talk to in Soweto. But right now, right now, she could give the world the middle finger for one night.

  Chapter 6

  6

  He was worried about Nobantu. He hoped nothing had happened to her, but right now it was first things first. He called his assistant and instructed her to send a memo to Oupa and Anant and then walked to their separate offices to cancel the meeting.

  “What happened?” Anant asked, concerned.

  “Nothing big,” Andile replied, trying to appear nonchalant. “It appears my wife forgot to fetch Nqo from school, and the same wife is not answering her cellphone, so I’m going to have to pick Nqo up.”

  “That’s not like Nobantu, are you sure everything is alright?” Anant prodded, but Andile just shrugged his shoulders and walked out.

  * * *

  Arriving at the school gate, he saw Nqobisa before she saw him. She was standing chatting happily to the security guard, but the moment she saw him she turned on the waterworks.

  “So why did your principal have to call me?” Andile enquired, as she got into the car. “Is there some reason you don’t have your cellphone with you?” He hated to see his little princess cry, but he knew he had to be firm with her.

  “Because Mom says that, since I am dropped and fetched from school, a cellphone will only be a distraction during lessons, Dad,” Nqobisa answered between the tears.

  “Oh . . .” he said, his resistance crumbling. “Come on, sweets, please don’t cry. How about some ice cream?” he offered, trying his usual line.

  She stopped crying immediately. “Daddy,” she stated, “I am too old for an ice cream bribe and, besides, it’s fattening.”

  Alrighty then. Why couldn’t girl children be less complicated than women? Andile thought to himself.

  “We can go and get a pizza for you and Xo though,” she said assertively.

  He looked at her. “What do we need a pizza for when we are going home?”

  “Duh, Dad. If Mom didn’t pick me up from school then she won’t have made dinner,” she answered.

  Child had a point.

  “And what are you going to eat, since the pizza is for Xo and myself?” he enquired.

  “I am sure I can convince Xo to make me a salad, Daddy.”

  Xolani’s salads, smothered with what he and his mother called their secret dressing, were better than anything any restaurant had to offer.

  They went and picked up the pizza and made their way home. On arrival Andile dashed into the house, yelling, “Nobantu . . . Nobantu . . .”

  As he looked around, his son emerged from the children’s games room and said, “Molo, Tata, she isn’t here. Baba Chimwemwe said she went to Stutt.”

  At that moment, he wondered whether she had in fact mentioned to him that she would be leaving. He tried unsuccessfully to recall their last few conversations. Then, giving up, he slapped his forehead and said, “Oh, man, of course. I had forgotten that today is Monday. Yeah, I remember now.”

  Xolani looked at him sceptically.

  “Listen, boy, why don’t you go and make us one of your salads?” he said, without meeting his son’s eyes. “Your sister’s got a pizza and we can all have supper together in front of the news.”

  Man, he never knew how to relate to this gangly youth who seemed so serious. He seemed to spend most of his time with his mother in the kitchen or the herb garden. He hoped the boy wasn’t gay. Not that there was anything wrong with being gay, he thought, checking himself. In fact, some of Nobantu’s best friends were gay. But his son? It was so unAfrican.

  He shrugged his shoulders. Better to worry about his son’s sexual preferences when and if he had to. Meanwhile, tonight, he would spend some much needed quality time with his children, then call his in-laws to find out whether his wife had arrived. He wondered why she wasn’t answering her phone. Was she angry over something? Eish! Women!

  * * *

  After dinner, with his daughter safely watching some comedy or other and his son doing heaven knows what in the kitchen (probably cleaning up), he stepped outside to call his in-laws. He had spent the entire evening trying to recall a conversation with Nobantu in which she had told him that she would be going to the Eastern Cape, but to no avail. Could she really have said something and he had simply not been paying attention?

  He dialled the land line and, after a couple of rings, the phone was answered by his father-in-law.

  “Unjani, Tata?” he enquired.

  It was only during his matric year that he had learnt the meaning of the word “hypochondriac”, but the person he immediately thought of on hearing the term for the first time was Nobantu’s father. It seemed that when he wasn’t talking law, he was talking of how ill he was.

  As he had expected, his father-in-law responded to his enquiry with the usual moans and groans. Andile smiled indulgently through his father-in-law’s litany of complaints about his health, before asking to speak to his mother-in-law.

  “Nguwe, Andile, unjani mntanami?” she asked as soon as she got on the line.

  “I am well, Mama, how are you?” he responded. “I was just calling to check whether Nobantu had arrived.”

  His mother-in-law gasped. “Arrived? Was she supposed to come here?” And then, with the insight only a mother could have, “Are the two of you having problems?”

  And then he told her everything. How he had received a phone call at work requesting that he come and pick Nqobisa up from school. How he had tried calling his wife, without response. For some reason, he could always speak to this woman in a way that he could never speak to his own mother; it always felt as if his mother-in-law thought highly of his actions.

  “It’s the party,” she said, interrupting his confession.

  He was confused. “The party? What about the party?”

  “The party that you threw for her last week. Now people think you are rich and they have kidnapped her and are going to call you with her phone and ask for money. Thixo wam, my poor child!” she cried.

  Wow. His mother-in-law always had had a fantastic imagination, but this was something else.

  “Um, Mama,” he managed, suppressing his amusement, “I don’t think she was kidnapped. Xo was told by one of the gardeners that she said she was coming that side.”

  “Oh?” she said, sounding disappointed. “Okay, maybe she has decided to sleep over in Bloemfontein so she does not have to travel in the dark. I will call you when she arrives, neh? But I wonder why she is not answering the cellphone?”

  Andile was wondering the same thing, but he figured that Nobantu might very well not be answering the phone because she was on the road. He said his goodbyes and hung up.

  As he walked back into the house, he saw his son sitting on a chair in the shadow under the porch. He wondered whether the boy had listened to the whole conversation.

  “You don’t know where she is, do you?” Xolani said, confirming his worst fears.

  “Shut up and go to bed,” he growled angrily. All up in grown folks’ business. Little bastard.

  It was only when Andile opened the wardrobe to take out his pyjamas that he noticed that most of her clothes were missing. This could not be a short-term visit.

  What was going on? Was she angry with him? Was she having an affair? No, he put that idea out of his head. Nobantu would never do that. But, he wondered, how was he supposed to spend a whole night in this big bed all alone? He had never slept without her – except in the early days when he had left her eCumakala to give birth or when he went on business trips out of Johannesburg.

  And what was he supposed to do about the children tomorrow morning?

  In the hope that she would answer her phone this time and tell him what
was going on, he took his cellphone and dialled her number again.

  Imagine his shock when he heard the phone ringing in the bedroom.

  Andile lifted his pillow, only to see her cellphone and an envelope addressed to him in her precise handwriting. He hung up and impatiently ripped the envelope open. He read it twice, trying to fully understand what she was saying to him, but even after a third read through he still felt he had missed something, so he read it aloud:

  Andile,

  I am sorry. I did not want to do this, but you leave me no choice. For the past few years I have felt empty – having dreams and ambitions that you seem not to want to share in. I have been feeling empty – not as your wife or as a mother (I love you and the kids more than ever), but as a human being. I feel constantly as though I am a shadow of you and not a person in my own right. I keep asking myself whether being a mother and wife is all there is to me, and time and time again the answer that comes back is a resounding “no”. I want to make something of myself. I want to pursue this dream that I have.

  You will wonder why I left the phone. It is because I did not want to run the risk of you calling me and talking me into returning – which I probably would do. While I know that, in spite of the lack of a phone, you could still trace me, I hope you will not do so, but respect the fact that I really need to do this for my own wellbeing.

  Regarding the children.

  You will have to wake up a little earlier if you and they are to be ready on time for work and school respectively. I suggest at least forty-five minutes earlier. Do not give them money. They both have their own personal accounts where you can make a transfer of eight hundred and a thousand rand for the younger and elder respectively (you will find the details of their accounts in the drawer on my side of the bed). These accounts have to be worked for and the work involved consists of homework being done on time and chores such as dishwashing and the tidying of their own rooms. Failure to comply with any of these chores means an automatic deduction of twenty rand for each chore that is not completed.